Page 18 of The First Spark
Glowering at the polished countertop, Zane curled his fingers into fists.
“So the promotion’s official?” another guard asked.
With more effort than it should’ve taken, Zane unclenched his fists and let out a slow breath. It would be easier if he didn’t think about her, and this was the perfect place for a distraction. “Confirmed today.”
Ancel whistled. “A cycle into this gig and you’re running the whole show. How much are they paying you?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
Crea danced her lavender fingers down his torso. “Will I have to call you boss?”
Zane flashed her a lazy, sated smile. “I’m open to negotiation.”
“Oh?” Her breath fluttered against his ear. She slipped a hand under his shirt, and the temperature rose as her fingers crept across his skin. “What kind of negotiation?”
Her tongue skimmed her ruby red lips, and in half a second, his mouth was on hers. He dug his fingers into her hair, trailed a hand down her back—then lower, until his hand rounded the curve of her ass and tugged her closer. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the little moan she made, maybe it was the maddening touch of her hands exploring his skin or the rush of heat blazing in their wake, but he didn’t care who saw.
A concussive bang snapped him out of the daze.
Zane broke away and scanned the bar, his heart pounding in his ears. His hand shot to his pulser, and Crea leapt aside as he lurched to his feet.
In the fighting pit, one of the aibots had caught fire.
Zane swore, scrubbing his face. It was an aibot fight, dammit. They were supposed to explode, that was the point, and he was acting like a stupid shiny about to lose his shit.
Soft lavender hands slid around him, and Crea pressed her face into the back of his shirt. “You okay?”
Letting out a shaky breath, Zane drew away. He stuffed his trembling hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m going to take a walk.”
Before she or the guards could comment, he stalked towards the fighting pit.
He pushed through the crowd, ignoring their whining. One glance at the floor of the cage was enough to make him wish he hadn’t looked. The aibot he’d staked twenty credits on, TX-20, lay dying in a shower of sparks. The RD-5 model stood triumphant, with a spike protruding from its chest plate.
Zane huffed. Great. He was out another twenty credits.
He waded through the motley assortment of obscenely wealthy passengers and off-duty crew, taking deep breaths. His hands were shaking. The explosion echoed in his ears, and he winced, closing his eyes.
He’d been an Oppallese Marine for five cycles. He needed to get a grip.
But it wasn’t the noise from the aibot pit that had him as skittish as a cadet.
He pushed through the edges of the crowd, wiping his brow on his sleeve. He’d go back to the bar, down a Purging Tonic to flush out the alcohol, close his tab, and call it a night. Once he was back in the privacy of his cramped cabin, he could decide what he was going to do about the princess stowing away on the ship.
Zane slammed to a halt.
There, as if she’d been summoned by Mordir himself, stood Kalista Hannover.
His nails dug into his palms. He’d hoped she would track him down, he’d taunted her for that reason. But now that she was standing in front of him, he could only think of Mom’s sobs and candles burning over an altar with no body.
She opened her mouth, but he beat her to it.
“You look like a wreck tonight, Princess.” Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were splotchy, and mascara left faint trails on her fair skin.
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, scanning the room. “You know what’s at stake.”
Zane smirked. Carik’s men were hunting her—and she needed his silence.
He’d been counting on it.
